


Florid

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: 'gen' in the sense that this is exactly what it looks like but neither of them can recognize it, (Stone Does Not in the grand scheme of things Help), AU in which Robotnik's lifetime of abandonment and rejection has, Chronic Hanahaki, Gen, M/M, about which he is actually more mad than the trauma itself, also Stone Helps, an embarrassing physical manifestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: Dr. Robotnik has suffered from hanahaki all his life. No one can know about it; Dr. Robotnik least of all.
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik & Agent Stone, Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Comments: 3
Kudos: 74





	Florid

The rain falls on the just and the unjust alike, and autumn allergies don’t care how brilliant you are.

After four hours of reddened eyes and raspy words and constant nose-blowing at positively paternal resonance, Dr. Robotnik bans Agent Stone from the lab. The excuse is that Stone’s cells are dividing too loudly and Robotnik’s sick of organic noise, but if he had to venture a guess it’s probably because helpless sneezing and congestion is unbecoming of a man with Dr. Robotnik’s fastidious personal carriage.

Agent Stone tries to help. He examines weather-stripping on the windows (pointless, since the doctor built the place) and hunts around for ragweed on his smoke break (nowhere). In less than half a day he can hear heavy coughing through the steel doors of the lab.

It’s strange. But then, his doctor is rather sensitive about his surroundings.

Stone orders enough oolong and raw honey to drown a horse and tries to leave him to it.

* * *

One Monday morning Agent Stone finds a handful of tattered flower petals on the floor outside the lab.

It is alarming. Dr. Robotnik has drones to clean up his messes — sometimes even the robots do it — but it's protocol to do a deep-clean every week and regular sweeps every few hours. Nothing ever gets missed, much less anything organic.

Stone takes a knee to investigate. Outside of his best efforts at window box horticulture and some basic survival training (aloe good, bamboo great, leaflets three don’t-eat-that) he’s not particularly familiar with plants. Presumably the doctor could identify the species, genus, and strain at a thousand paces, but to Stone they look delicate, a little smeared, dried in an unprepossessing shady of dingy brown. Probably they were once yellow. Maybe daffodils?

He unfolds a napkin and carefully pinches up a sample. The petals crush powdery between his fingers and he tries not to breathe near them.

Even if they’re not poisonous, it does not look good. It would be a very, very ill-advised decision to send Dr. Robotnik a bouquet in a fit of light-heartedness. In his best moods the doctor has very little patience for human niceties; even less for outright mockery.

Unless.

No, absurd. Even if the doctor had, in the approximately 0.43 minutes he is neither working nor conscious, found someone from whom gifts of flowers would be welcome, he’s not going to start leaving negligent hints about his personal life for anyone to find.

Stone grimaces and tucks the napkin into his pocket. Either way, it’s what folks in their biz refer to as Bad News.

The doors swish open as Stone stands. Perched at his main console with his headphones on over one ear, Dr. Robotnik doesn’t even turn to look at him.

“Good morning, doctor. Have you noticed any contraband floral arrangements on base?”

“Whatever it is you’re talking about, I don’t care," Robotnik rasps. "Socket wrench, in my hand. Then leave.”

It’s a fairly standard demand but the voice draws Stone up short. He isn’t accustomed to the doctor sounding quite this wrecked. He crosses the room to make the required deposit and scans his boss.

Even in the blue light, he looks gray, positively anemic. Sleepless circles bruise his eyes and his moustache is unkempt. A dart of sympathy lances into Stone’s belly. He’s never seen Robotnik sick before—between his technology and the extracurricular dabbling in biology, the doctor has actually been able to cure a rainy day, let alone the common cold.

“Can I bring you a protein shake, doctor?” Better to keep him on a soft diet, if he’s feeling rough. “Or tea?”

Dr. Robotnik starts to speak, doubtlessly something scathing to bely his exhausted expression. But in the place of razor words, a bead of blood bursts onto his lower lip and he jolts, trying to swallow a cough.

Stone flutters, stricken with the suicidal urge to pat his back. The doctor fumbles in his sleeve and pulls out a black handkerchief, holding it against his mouth as his face creases around the wet, wracking coughs that pound through his chest.

Blood sprays back onto Dr. Robotnik's cheeks. 

“Doctor, I’m calling the base physician—”

Even the hand fisting itself in Stone’s shirt isn’t enough to stop him from placing the call. Robotnik has to flail a considerable amount before he manages to knock the phone out of Stone’s grasp, but at last it smacks into the wall and falls behind the desk.

“No!” Robotnik wheezes. “It’s nothing!”

“Sir, you’re coughing up blood.”

The doctor glares behind the handkerchief held over his mouth. His voice and his eyes are wet.

“Hemoptysis resulting from allergic irritation. Compounded by conventional irritation, from you. Get out and it will scab.”

Stone gives him his gentlest Nice Interrogator look. “I’m sure you’ve done the X-rays, doctor, but another pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Stone! I know what I’m dealing with! It’s allergies and old scars from a childhood pneumonia. It happens every few years.”

“I can remove the allergen, doctor, but we should still—”

“Good! Do it. It’s probably your rank cologne.” The doctor wipes his mouth with the handkerchief and sneers. “Now get out.”

“Sir—”

“That’s a direct order, agent.” Dr. Robotnik presses a few buttons on his gloves and one of his badniks comes floating out of its rack. A red dot appears on Stone’s chest. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Dr. Robotnik has in fact fired on him before. But that was in a training session, and given the excessive bandaging and the shrill insults and the enforced day off that followed, Agent Stone is pretty sure that the doctor didn’t actually mean to wing him. Even looking like death warmed up, he doesn’t think the man’s entirely sincere about using live ammo to eject him from the lab.

Still, it’s beneath both of their dignity for a drone to have to headbutt Stone all ten feet out of the office. And if three or four of them gang up on him, they might actually bop him out whether he wants to go or not.

“Yes, doctor. I’ll bring you a cup of tea,” Stone says. And he means it to sting.

* * *

It doesn't clears up after full three days. Initially Stone isn’t going to let him get away with it, and then he stays up reading about the state of modern orphanages in Bulgaria and decides that he’d rather leave this key in the lock.

If the doctor doesn't look better in a week, he'll force the issue.

* * *

When Agent Stone returns from Mumbai, he’s lost ten pounds and his last scrap of patience for Indian fascists. It's not like he's got it all his damn self, but even for a man working in the darker shades of gray it's not fun to be dragged out on what was supposed to be an admin week to have to listen to people talk earnestly about Hitler the managerial guru.

Back in the lab he finds the doctor energetic and in good spirits. Relief sinks into Stone's exhausted bones like heat from a bath.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Back so soon, Stone?" Spidery hands dance across the holoscreens, pinching and spreading to form data into darts. "Couldn't have taken the scenic route? Lingered on the slow boat?"

"My vacation isn't scheduled until March, doctor."

"Vacation? Ha! Your stand-up's getting better." Dr. Robotnik turns to face him and gives him a there-and-gone smirk. His color's back. 

"Allergies cleared up, sir?"

Dr. Robotnik squints at him and flaps a hand. "If you're going to stand around asking questions with obvious answers, you can go back."

Stone grins. "Sorry, doctor. Just got a little extra socialization left on me from the diplomats. It'll buff off in a few hours."

"See that it does! Now, Stone," he claps his hands together and rubs them vigorously. He looks particularly fiendish, smiling like that. “Since you're finally back, I want—”

Dr. Robotnik's voice cuts like someone’s hit mute. One hand flies up to his chest. His gaze darts up to Stone and he inhales, short and sharp. 

The doctor begins to convulse.

Stone starts forward. “Sir…?”

The coughing fit bends the doctor double. Wet, wracking noise pounds in his chest and bulges up through his throat. He manages to catch himself with one hand on the counter, and Stone stands by like an asshole, venturing a hand on the man’s shoulder only to feel the way his ribs heave.

He’s flustering over how and where to sit Robotnik down when the first petals fall.

Peonies. Large, thin petals with rippled edges in delicate pinks. Gloved hands try to hold them in, press them back, and when the hands falter out tumbles a parody of spring, blossoms and red rain pelting to the floor. The doctor’s back shakes, trying to draw breath, but there’s too much pollen and blood.

Stone pats his back, staring at the mess on the floor. It’s like a bomb has gone off in the world’s smallest florist shop. He does not have a single goddamn clue what this means.

The coughing fit abates slowly. Stone is still rubbing Dr. Robotnik’s back when it finally reinflates, shaking and hesitating at every stage. The man gasps for air for a few seconds, actually leaning against Stone as he collects himself.

Neither of them speak for a long moment. It’s long enough for the lab’s sensors to recognize an unauthorized mess and deploy a roomba with, unaccountably, a knife soldered to its lid.

“This didn’t happen,” Robotnik rasps. His voice is shredded. His throat clicks and his chest heaves, and Stone strokes his back as if that will help. He can’t read the doctor’s face, except to see that the fit hurt.

“You have—”

The doctor shoves him away as hard as he can. He’s winded. Stone takes a step back as Dr. Robotnik turns his back and braces himself with both hands on the table.

“Chronic floricultural pneumonia. It’s nothing.”

Stone stares at him, silent. Dr. Robotnik’s shoulder blades visibly tighten beneath his coat and his voice cracks like dry wood.

“It’s common. Everyone knows it. Atmospheric quality and pressure drops can result in a temporary horticultural floral-hemoptysis. I inhaled the petals from somewhere. They clogged and my hardware malfunctioned.”

Stone slowly takes a knee and picks up one of the largest petals. It’s wet and ruined with blood and saliva, and it’s far too supple to be anything but fresh. There’s no way it could’ve made it whole into the doctor’s lungs without him choking on it immediately.

He silently sets it on the table. Dr. Robotnik sweeps it to the ground with a savage backhand blow. He spins to face Stone and at last the agent can see his wet eyes and his mouth and chin slick with blood.

“Look at me in that tone of voice one more time and I’ll disintegrate you,” the doctor snarls. “I know what you’re thinking!”

Stone would like to think that’s an exaggeration. He’s not confident, though.

The thing is, he’s been with the doctor long enough to know a few things, and not least of all is the fact that his doctor is the kind of man who lies to his bodyguard about his blood type for 18 months. Like healthy teeth from an angry mouth he’s pulled slivers of information about the doctor’s hardware. He knows about Dr. Robotnik’s moderate near-sightedness, getting worse as he ages; his polymorphic light eruption after more than 15 unprotected minutes in the sun; his mild allergy to coconut; and the 11 or 12 psychological complications he almost-manages with a custom blend of stimulants and horse tranquilizers, white wine, MAOIs, and obsessive cardio.

He knew there was more he was missing. He didn’t think it was hanahaki. (Although it does validate his gut from that one time he’d found syringes and an unmarked bottle of medication during one fine spring mission. He _knew_ the doctor wasn’t doing horse.)

“This has been going on for two years,” Stone says.

“You have no idea how long it’s been going on!”

“It’s been going on longer?”

Dr. Robotnik snarls. With the blood slicking his teeth it does look fierce. “That’s irrelevant!”

Stone opens his mouth and closes it again. Pneumonia scars from the orphanage. Oh, shit.

“Shut up!” the doctor roars, although Stone hasn’t said anything. Dr. Robotnik’s voice cracks and blood flies from his mouth. It lands on Stone’s shoes in tiny droplets.

Ah. Right. Looking at him in that tone of voice.

"And get out!"

Stone reaches up and adjusts his tie with the same care as a man whose tie is made of temperamental scorpions. “My shift ends at midnight, doctor. I can ask another agent to stand-by for support—”

“For once in your life, would you play dumb when I want you to? I don’t need stand-by support, I don’t need tea, and I don’t need your pitiful attempts to grant me the dignity you think I so sorely lack!”

Stone bunches his life up tight in both hands. “... do you want to talk about it?”

It's hanahaki. It must be. Obviously chronic, if it's been going on since childhood—for one thing, terminal hanahaki only exists next to smallpox in two research facilities on the face of the planet, and moreover the chronic strain kills rather fewer people than lightning strikes each year. 

It's hanahaki, but it's not necessarily about love; definitely not in the way Stone understands the stuff. Dr. Robotnik is Other. It stands to reason that his super-speedy nervous system could feel hurt faster and deeper and more broadly than most human beings. Hell, what constitutes a heartbreak for him might not hurt anyone else: it could be a prototype failure, or a grant rejection, or even something as baffling and human as a half-remembered moment of peace. Unwelcome discovery of temps perdu in the form of a kielbasa or a Gaussian curve.

(It must be hanahaki, but if it is, and it's chronic, then the doctor had been born with a broken heart. Therefore Stone needs it to be something other than hanahaki. Stone needs to think that just because he was abandoned by his parents and left to grow up in a negligent orphanage, so starved of touch it’s incredible he managed to thrive at all, and then spent the rest of his life vacillating between rampant misanthropy and rapacious neediness that somehow never manage to really match the degree to which the world regards him with its own hatred and disgust, doesn’t mean that his doctor has had his heart broken.

Stone's needs, of course, are not going to be met.)

Robotnik’s voice hitches up to a scream. “Get it through your skull! There is nothing to talk about!”

“With respect, doctor—”

“What, Stone? You think this is a weakness? Just because you see me coughing up a bouquet you think there’s some deep tragic bullshit I haven’t been able to work out? Newsflash! There isn’t! I keep all my deep tragic bullshit right on my sleeve!” 

Man’s got a point.

"This is just the way it is." Blood is staining his moustache and coursing down Dr. Robotnik's chin. Stone's the first to observe that the doctor looks good in blood, but only in someone else's. "If you can't _hack_ it, Stone, if you're going to cringe at the blood and look at me with that insufferable pitying expression on your face, you're not cut out for this job."

He is cut out for this job, full-stop. It's just that Stone could cure it, too. One open, honest, absolutely confidential conversation about whatever it is, and it could be done. It would take seconds, and every spring and fall be relieved of untold pain in a single sentence. 

Sure. Getting the doctor to talk about his feelings? Stone might as well propose a bullet for a headache. 

"I can hack it. I just think the current treatment plan consumes an unnecessarily large amount of your time."

Confusion cuts into disdain just deep enough to form unease. The doctor clears his throat and swallows hard, twice. "It will resolve on its own."

"It doesn't have to last this long, or hurt this much," Stone says. The doctor snorts, and Stone pushes on, "I can help administer your medication and a cough suppressant. I'll get a prescription under my name, if you want. No tea, maybe, but really hot coffee? And a high-sodium meal. Salt the earth." 

Dr. Robotnik turns his head and coughs. A wad of petal splatters on his knuckles and he flicks it to the floor. Zorroomba swings at Stone's ankles and misses by a hair. 

"An experiment," Stone pushes, "just to see."

"Don't patronize me, Agent." But there's no bite in it. Just an order, almost courteous in tone. He's thinking about it. 

Stone shifts his posture at a glacial pace, until he's figleafing with all his might. Waiting. Trying not to cross his fingers.

"You're extremely dismissed," Dr. Robotnik says, pointing to the door. "Don't come back without a pretzel."

* * *

One spring morning Agent Delta finds a handful of tattered flower petals on the floor outside the lab.

Agent Delta sets the file folder and the protein shake on the floor and takes a knee to investigate. He unfolds a napkin and carefully pinches up a sample. They're brown and nasty, but there doesn't appear to be anything sinister about them, except, of course, that they're right here. Organic material of any kind has no business being here.

The lab is unusually quiet, even through the steel doors. Delta gets to his feet and knocks. 

The door springs open. Delta knocks his heels together and straightens right up. 

“Good morning,” Agent Stone says. “At ease.”

“Thank you, sir. Some documentation for the doctor—” 

"He's not to be disturbed. You can give them to me." Stone frowns at the folder. “I thought we talked about scanning these and sending them to his tablet. He doesn’t like paper.”

“General Montgomery’s orders, sir.”

“Are you talking back, private?”

Delta zips it. 

Stone takes the file folder and skims the contents. “I’ll see to it. That’s chocolate, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Delta hands over the protein shake. “Also, sir, I found something strange outside the door.”

Stone’s face hardens. “Explain.”

“It looks kind of like flower petals, but all stained.” Delta produces the napkin and shows the evidence. Stone’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches at the sight of them. “I wasn’t sure if the doctor had been experimenting on something, or if it was part of a shipment for… I don’t know what.”

Stone takes the napkin and stuffs it into a pocket. “Ah. That. It’s nothing.”

Delta eyes him a little. “You’re sure, sir? I can do a sweep.”

"Positive. It's personal."

"Oh. Were... they for you, then?"

Stone frowns deeply and clears his throat. “Absolutely not. Personal research, and consider that a full and complete answer, Delta. I’ve seen to the issue and it’s irrelevant to the work."

"Yes, sir." Well, he's not buying flowers for Mom this year. If Dr. Robotnik's started putting lasers in tulips, Delta's not going to be the last to know.

"That’s all for now. Let me know if I can get a word in to Montgomery later.”

Great. Every time Agent Stone feels the need to remind General Montgomery about the preferences and destructive potential of one extremely volatile asset, Delta’s day gets a little bit crummier. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Delta salutes and gets the hell out of there. Probably just a new experiment, after all. There's no way anyone would be sending Robtnik flowers, not with his reputation, and still less likely is anyone sending a bouquet to his hardass, po-faced second-in-command.

That's not a guy to stop and smell the roses.

**Author's Note:**

> Agent code names are selected at random. They don’t mean anything. (RIP Agent Sponge.)
> 
> But they might’ve been making a point with Stone.


End file.
